Yesterday evening, I was sitting here, minding my own business when the scene from a story struck me so hard I had to write it down. I'm not sure where it's going, or even if it will go anywhere (heck, I have what, two other unfinished storydreams at the moment, so why not three?) but we'll see...
He sat and watched as they searched, curled up in the reading chair, as they tore apart the library and gouged holes in the walls. They carried out more than he cared to count, as some sort of evidence, he supposed, but they didn't come close to finding what they were looking for.
They wouldn't find it. It was well-hidden, and so was he.
For weeks they kept guards on every door, waiting for him to return, not knowing that he watched them from inside, and always chose the times they weren't looking to scrounge something to eat from his own well-stocked cupboards.
And he kept the cloak on and activated, a ghost in his own silent house.
Read more...
He sat and watched as they searched, curled up in the reading chair, as they tore apart the library and gouged holes in the walls. They carried out more than he cared to count, as some sort of evidence, he supposed, but they didn't come close to finding what they were looking for.
They wouldn't find it. It was well-hidden, and so was he.
For weeks they kept guards on every door, waiting for him to return, not knowing that he watched them from inside, and always chose the times they weren't looking to scrounge something to eat from his own well-stocked cupboards.
And he kept the cloak on and activated, a ghost in his own silent house.
Read more...
Comments